


Poison-Green

by 105NorthTower



Series: Beforehand [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:56:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/105NorthTower/pseuds/105NorthTower
Summary: A chance meeting at the beach.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike
Series: Beforehand [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168427
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	Poison-Green

**Author's Note:**

> "She had never confided in a solitary human being (even Matthew) her lifelong, secret, childish ambition." The Cuckoo's Calling

It was hot in the dunes but no-one would find him here. No-one had ever found him here. And they'd looked.

He couldn't stay forever, of course. They'd call his friends, their mothers, the school, the police. If they didn't get you one way, it was another. Eventually he'd go back, to stop all that from happening.

But for now, they could all wait. 

She was well-camouflaged, amongst the dunes. Her biscuit coloured head and green bathing suit drifted amongst the sand and grass and he often lost sight of her altogether. 

He could always hear her though. She had a monologue going, like lots of little kids do, a never-ending conversation with some internal voice. He didn't have that now (let's face it, talking to yourself was a short way to get punched at his school, at any of the schools he'd been to) but he remembered it. The good company of it. Even if you argued, you never fell out.

"And it could NOT have been Daddy because he was sleeping the whole time. Mommy said he was SNORING."

She was closer now, and he could see she was carrying a big spiral-bound notebook, and one of those pens with a fluffy ball on the end.

"Mommy didn't do it. Because she's Mommy."

She was fair-skinned and should have had a hat, like his sister. He bet she did have a hat - she looked like a kid someone loved and provided with hats, but she'd maybe discarded it along the way. She stopped suddenly and comically in front of him and looked at him with suspicion.

"You're that boy."

"No, I'm not."

That seemed to confuse her and she bent over her notebook again. She was close enough that he could see she was writing squiggles and not words. How old was she? Younger than Lucy, definitely. Maybe five?

"I saw you. You had ice-cream." She waved the fur ball at him, accusingly.

"Wasn't me."

Her face was screwed up in frowning concentration.

"Was you. You have a red shirt."

Squiggle.

"It's got ice-cream on it "

Squiggle.

"So you could be the gillteeparteee."

He laughed. "The what?"

"Gillteeparteee."

"What's that?"

She pushed her hair out of her face, which he now noticed was extremely sticky and yet this didn't seem to affect her confidence as she threw him a look of pity for his lack of useful knowledge.

"It means the one who DID IT."

"Oh."

"My Daddy says that's what it means."

"Well, I can't be the guilty party yet. I have to be a suspect, first."

She looked down at the notebook of squiggles.

"I have lots."

"Lots of suspects?"

"Yes. I write them in my book."

"Let's hear them then."

She shuffled dramatically backwards and forwards through the squiggles.

"Stephen and Martin."

"Right."

"Daddy."

"OK."

"A Man With a Hat."

"He sounds bad. I think it's him."

"The Other Man. And you."

She waved her pen at him again. "Did YOU do it?"

"Definitely not."

Her face was doubtful, but she gave her pages another riffle and then held the notebook out to him. 

"I need your fingers."

"Fingerprints," he corrected her, but she was already wandering over to a clump of grass and picking up some of the rainbow pieces of plastic waste that the sea smoothed and left behind.

He found a fresh page and drew five oval shapes, then filled them with looped and whorled lines. She came back with her hands full of treasures and when she saw what he'd done she squealed and gave him a big smile.

"Ohmygod, ohmygod, they're real fingertips."

"OK, so now you can eliminate me from your enquiries."

She shrugged, as if that phrase meant nothing to her and waved her hands at him for her pen and notebook. He passed them back to her. For a few moments she struggled to hold the pen, notebook and plastic fragments in her small fingers, but then she gave up. She piled the plastic at his feet and addressed him seriously.

"THESE ones are for you."

"Oh ... thanks."

She turned towards the beach and then stopped and pointed at a tall figure in blue canvas trousers, a long-sleeved white shirt and sturdy brown leather boots, who stuck out amongst the emmets. 

"That's The Other Man."

"Oh." He shook his head. "He's not the guilty party. He's my uncle. I can vouch for him."

She looked confused. "Voucher him?"

"No. Vouch for. I'm his alibi."

She spent the next few minutes trying the new words out with her internal voice. "We can voucher him, he's a nally-bye." Then, without a farewell, she strode off toward what he supposed was the scene of the crime.

It was time to go. Back to sweltering London. Another disgusting squat. A new school in September. Missing out on a summer of Dave and caves and ... the little girl was right. This was a bloody crime scene.

He stood and picked up his trainers. His first step kicked over the pile of flotsam she'd abandoned at his feet. Bending down, he picked up a piece of poison green plastic the exact same colour as her swimming costume and slipped it in his pocket. Then he headed for the beach, where he would soon be seen.


End file.
